


keep you (in the dark)

by sassymajesty



Series: clexaweek19 [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Friends With Benefits, Hurt/Comfort, No Strings Attached, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-06 03:47:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17932268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassymajesty/pseuds/sassymajesty
Summary: It only takes one person becoming aware of her presence for the conversation to come to a halt. One by one, everyone notices the sudden change in the air. One by one, every face she used to call a friendly one turns around to make sure they’re not imagining things, to make sure she really dared to come into their bar after everything, to make sure she’s not halfway across the ocean like she’s supposed to. Then, one by one, they all shuffle closer together, forming a wall between Lexa and the one person they pray without hope that hasn’t seen her yet.Lexa knows she has. She could always tell.





	keep you (in the dark)

**Author's Note:**

> You can find the moodboard for this story in [this Tumblr post.](http://sassymajesty.tumblr.com/post/183077302203)

Walking into the bar throws Lexa back in time. 

It still smells like cheap alcohol and cheaper cigarettes, her shoes still stick to the floor near the front door where people seem to spill the most beer, the neon signs scattered around still cast a red glow to every surface, except the back corner booth where no light seems to reach. Even the songs seem to be the same ones – but then again, lo-fi songs meant to make everyone want to drink and have sex in the bathroom stalls never truly stuck to her mind.

The familiarity doesn’t bring her any comfort. There’s something missing. 

One year ago, she’d be half lying on the couch far before the night came and the neon lights got turned on, drinking bad coffee she bought in the coffee shop around the corner and reading a paper for one of her classes, half heartedly annotating it. One year ago, she’d be leaving by ten, attached to the hip with someone who will leave her on read without any mercy now. One year ago, she wouldn’t be alone, wearing her heart on her sleeve.

Bodies bump into her, drinks slosh in red cups and nearly find her shirt. She shoves her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket, missing the feeling of fingers intertwined with hers, leading her closer to the counter so they could get their own drinks.

One year is far too long. One year doesn’t seem to have scabbed over her aching heart at all.

It doesn’t take her long to make her way to the counter, but she doesn’t bother sneaking her way through the crowd to get a drink. She could use the liquid courage. She should have drank something back at the apartment. She should have called.

Lexa makes her way towards the far end of the counter, where it makes a right angle and no one gets service. She knows who she’ll find there – two years ago, she’d be there as well, legs sharing the same space in between the tall stools, one hand loosely gripping her beer, the other running up a too familiar path.

When she untangles herself from the crowd, Lexa finds more familiar faces than she wants to. Half of them are inside the restricted area, taking four orders at once and pouring drinks. The others form half a circle near the counter, laughter flowing as freely as the alcohol.

She holds her breath.

It only takes one person becoming aware of her presence for the conversation to come to a halt. One by one, everyone notices the sudden change in the air. One by one, every face she used to call a friendly one turns around to make sure they’re not imagining things, to make sure she  _ really _ dared to come into their bar after everything, to make sure she’s not halfway across the ocean like she’s supposed to. Then, one by one, they all shuffle closer together, forming a wall between Lexa and the one person they pray without hope that hasn’t seen her yet.

Lexa knows she has. She could always tell.

Finding a spot between the pole in the corner and the swarm of people, Lexa waits. She doesn’t order any drinks, doesn’t call attention to herself, doesn’t dare to look sideways to check for any movement. She just waits.

“You’re back,” Clarke says when she gets close enough, surprise tinging her voice. For a moment, Lexa almost believes her. Because she really sounds like she hasn’t liked the post Lexa made on Facebook about starting school in New York, like she hasn’t watched the Instagram stories of her plane taking off and landing, like this isn’t months in the making.

But Lexa is sharing an apartment with Luna again, is staying in the same bedroom she did two years ago, in the same bed Clarke used to wake up on and put yesterday’s clothes before heading to class. And Luna is dating Raven, who’s one of Clarke’s best friend – even if she  _ hadn’t _ seen it all over social media, she would have heard it through the grapevine.

Maybe Clarke is surprised that Lexa is back  _ here _ , to the bar. She doesn’t ask. “I am.”

“For good?” Clarke raises her eyebrows ever so slightly, in the way she used to do when she teased Lexa, when she demanded an answer of something she didn’t want to say, when they were in the bedroom with nothing in between them and she wanted to try something new.

It stirs something within her, and Lexa feels like she just did a shot of very cheap tequila.

“For grad school.” For two years. Two years, they’ll be living in the same city. Two years, they’ll be going to the same places they did when Lexa spent two semesters learning everything New York had to offer. Two years, they’ll be running into each other.

Lexa doesn’t want to stay for only two years. She doesn’t want to finish her studying and fly back to London, find a job somewhere, and stay in the city that now only made her miss blue skies and blue eyes she had grown so fond of. But she doesn’t make any promises either – because she’s done that before when she thought she could keep them, and she broke her promises along with her heard.

Clarke nods, reaches for a drink that isn’t on the counter, swallows past the lump in her throat. She sighs in something akin to defeat and meets Lexa’s eyes again – oh, how she missed the blue, “What are you studying?”

_ International affairs _ . And Lexa realizes the irony in the name of the program, so much so she’s been taken to calling it a master’s degree in  _ diplomacy _ . It’s hardly accurate, but it makes her less likely to laugh at her own misery. “Do you care?”

“Not really,” Clarke says, sounding almost relieved at the way out Lexa gives her. Small talk has never been their forte – Lexa had wiped Clarke’s tears away after she talked about her father’s death way before she knew she were a pre-med major.

“What are you drinking?”

Clarke looks up at her and Lexa can barely hold her gaze, the year they spent apart leaving her completely unprepared to handle its intensity. It lasts two seconds, three tops. But it’s enough to shake her resolve to the core.

“Beer,” Clarke answers, looking longingly to where her half finished bottle lies past the corner. Lexa follows her eyes, finds four pairs of eyes staring at them, daring her to pull any shit, “But I need shots.”

“I’m buying,” Lexa states and Clarke doesn’t fight her, doesn’t bother telling her what to order – she knows, she’s learned that early, she never forgot once she tasted it on Clarke’s lips.

It doesn’t take more than a wave of her hand for her to get noticed – the bar is crowded, they’re fighting for precious space, but Lexa knows every single person who knew her a year ago, who knew Clarke a year ago, is keeping an eye on them.

“Lexa,” Bellamy greets her with a nod, sharp and threatening. She holds his gaze, knowing very well it could burn a hole in her skull, knowing Octavia and Raven are staring at her in a very similar fashion from just down the bar.

“Bellamy,” she answers in the the same tone, if a little more amicable. She produces a few bills, still crisp from her trip to the currency exchange place, slides them over the counter, “Four shots.” She looks at Clarke before adding, “Each.”

He nods and grabs eight shot glasses at once, lines them up, pours tequila until they’re all shining with golden light. Lexa pays more attention than she should, than she normally would. But her game plan sounds weak at best now, and she doubts alcohol will make her much more eloquent than she is right now.

She should have called.

In hindsight, that’s more than obvious. She should have called Clarke.

She should have called her today. She should have gotten off the plane and called Clarke, asked if they could talk somewhere more private than the bar where half the students in their college would be on a Friday night. She should have slept her jet lag away instead of drinking hard liquor on a mostly empty stomach. She should have done this right.

But more than that, she should have called her a year ago.

Lexa doesn’t expect Clarke to forgive her. But if getting drunk together is as close as they’ll get to going back to what they were, Lexa will take it.

Bellamy pushes the shots towards them, four in front of each one. Looking at Clarke to make sure she’s okay with this impossible situation, he waits patiently until she nods, only then leaving, taking a few steps to the side to both give them some sense of privacy and to take orders from other patrons.

Before Lexa has the chance to get one of her glasses and raise it in a half toast, Clarke is already reaching for her second shot. Following her lead, Lexa downs her first one, but she needs the lime to keep it down. She tells herself her chest is burning because she’s not used to straight up tequila anymore and she does a pretty good job at convincing herself it’s not because Clarke needs  _ three shots _ to even look at her.

She catches up quickly.

She wants to feel her body buzzing, even if it’s not because of Clarke’s touches.

Their four shots are gone before they exchange a single word. But four shots are enough for the world to start to blur around the edges, for the sharpness to soften, for the yearning to overcome the hurt.

They leave the elephant sitting comfortably in the middle of the room, tip toe around it, find each other wanting the same thing. They’ve missed each other. They were good together and now they’ve been missing each other for too long.

Four shots are enough for them to take a chance at small talk, at catching up in every way except for the one that actually matters.

Clarke talks about Bellamy getting the bar off the ground in the last year, going from a dive bar with nothing but bottom shelf booze to an actually decent bar that turns quite a good profit, although they’re still not checking for IDs and it’ll still get them into trouble. They climb into two stools a couple vacate, stumbling into them with less grace than they’d have liked, and order two beers. Clarke goes on to tell her Raven and Octavia started working at the bar the day after they turned twenty one, that Monty is in charge of the kitchen now, that Jasper still wants to murder her but Harper is happy she’s back.

The words tangle in Lexa’s brain, and it takes her a few tries to get them right. She’s aching to ask Clarke which one she leans towards – did Lexa coming back make her smile or does she still want to skin her alive? – but then she turns around in her seat, bumps her knees on Clarke’s thigh, meets her eyes. Whatever question she had in mind falls away.

Between the booze and how gorgeous Clarke looks in the faint neon light, Lexa doubts she’ll ever remember how to speak.

She does, eventually. She asks Clarke about what classes she’s taking in her last year when she wants to ask her if there’s anything she can do to unbreak her heart. She listens to Clarke mumble something about biochemistry and calculus, and Lexa only half pays attention – she does want to know everything about Clarke, who she’s become in this year they’ve been apart, but she wants to talk about so much more than how hard calculus is.

It doesn’t help matters that Clarke loses her balance for a moment, the stool too tall for how many shots they’ve taken, and grips Lexa’s thigh to keep herself sitting up.

Lexa feel the heat from her palm seeping past her jeans, searing the outline of her hands on her skin, marking her as  _ Clarke’s _ . She’s never been anyone else’s, it feels silly that she’s ever even tried. 

The moment hangs heavy, the buzz of the crowd becoming little more than a muffled hum. Clarke leans forward as she steadies herself, her eyes making their way up from where her hand rests, to the spot where Lexa’s heart is threatening to jump out of her chest, to the slope of her neck, to her heavy lidded eyes. 

Whatever Clarke finds there makes her clear her throat and draw back, reach for her beer, gulp it down. 

Lexa has never been discreet. She fell in love first, she held back until she knew her advances wouldn’t be unwelcomed, she poured everything out the moment she could. And Clarke had learned pretty quickly to understand what she was trying to say before the words even formed in her mind. It’s not a surprise that she figures out how much Lexa wants her before she herself does.

Clarke orders more shots without even asking Lexa if she wants anything else – she does, she needs more alcohol if she wants any chance of making it out alive. When Raven slides them six more shots on a tray with lime wedges snuggled beside them, they both know this is not their wisest move. But they both know they won’t stop whatever happens tonight, be it a kiss or a murder.

Climbing out of her own stool and holding out a hand for Clarke to climb out of hers, Lexa allows herself a moment of weakness as she places her arm around Clarke’s waist – to keep her steady, she tells herself, like she’s in much better shape. As if they’re still in sync, as if this year apart didn’t happen, Lexa grabs both of their beers and follows Clarke towards the booth where the light doesn’t really find them, slides down the bench first – Clarke knows she likes to sit in the corner, they’ve done this for months and it’s almost second nature now – and waits for Clarke to slide up close to her, fit her frame in the space between her arm and ribs.

She doesn’t.

Because they’re not the same they were a year ago and there’s too history between them for it to be that easy.

Instead, Clarke keeps her distance, grabs a shot, slides the tray towards Lexa and points her to get one herself.

“I miss having sex with you.” Lexa chokes on her shot, half of it going down the wrong pipe, tears clouding her vision as she coughs, tequila burning her lungs. Clarke’s voice is impossibly soft, as low as it can be with the music playing around them, and it makes Lexa’s head spin. “I could never find someone quite as good as you and fuck, did I try.”

How did they go from talking about calculus to how good their sex life used to be?

Anyone looking towards them would think they were talking about the damn weather by the casual way Clarke runs her fingers around the edge of her now empty shot glass. It takes Lexa a moment to get it together, to stop coughing, to think about what she could possibly say to this. They’re tiptoeing around a minefield, land mines ready to explode if a feather falls on top of them. It’s dangerous, it’s such an obvious  _ bad decision _ – capital B and capital D. 

But Lexa goes with it. Because she’s drunk and she’s missed how easy it is to talk to Clarke, and  _ fuck _ , she’s been craving for her touch for a year now and if talking about it is as close as she gets to it, so be it. “We were good at it, weren’t we?”

They were. She knows they were. The question is rhetoric, is simply meant to spur Clarke on, to keep her talking. Because Lexa missed her voice, missed how carefree it could sound, how it slurred when she was tipsy enough.

Clarke bites her bottom lip, sucking it in between her teeth and letting it go before she looks up at Lexa. A neon sign glowing above the counter several feet away is the only light source they have in this booth tucked away from the rest of the bar, and that neon light is enough to make Clarke’s face glow with mischief, “We should do it again.”

Nothing but dumb luck keeps Lexa from choking on her drink again, the beer sliding down her throat despite her shock. She didn’t see this coming when she set out to meet Clarke tonight. From the thousand scenarios she had run in her head, not a single one ended with her proposing sex. “What?” Lexa asks to make sure her brain isn’t playing tricks on her, setting her beer down and pushing the shots a little farther away from the both of them.

“We should have sex,” Clarke says, plain and clear. Whatever wall she had built when they were on the counter seems to have vanished with that last shot, her eyes hovering between sultry and sleepy. She takes another sip from her beer before leaning in closer to Lexa, “I can’t find a good fuck to save my life and I’m so fucking wound up I can’t focus in class. We click, we know how to make each other feel good, and I know you could use getting laid too. You’re all tense. Tell me one good reason we shouldn’t fuck in the bathroom.”

Clarke says it slowly, making sure to enunciate every word, crawling closer and closer to Lexa like a lioness hunting its prey. By the time Clarke finishes talking, they’re mere inches apart – Lexa could lean in, could capture her lips into hers, could give in to the feeling she’s been fighting ever since she signed up for the damn program that got her here.

She doesn’t know from where she takes the strength to lean away until her back is flush against the wall. “You’re drunk,” Lexa mumbles the one reason she can find. It’s not like she isn’t as tipsy as Clarke, and it’s not like there aren’t many more reasons why this would be a bad idea. But right now, with Clarke looking at her mouth with eyes so hungry it looks like she hasn’t eaten in a year, Lexa can’t remember any.

“I am, but not enough that I don’t know what I’m doing,” Clarke explains in a calm voice, that breaks a little around the edges. She pushes both of their beers away and takes Lexa’s wrist into her hand, reaching out until her thumb finds her pulse point. It’s something she’s always done, it’s something that’s always calmed Lexa. But now, it only gives her true feelings away. “You came here to make bad decisions, right? Why else would you come into this bar, of all places.”

Lexa doesn’t have an answer for that. She’s tired of fighting herself on this, she’s tired of making herself believe she doesn’t want exactly what the gorgeous woman in front of her is offering, “Clarke…”

“I’m a bad decision,” Clarke whispers just loud enough for Lexa to hear above all the buzz from the bar, closing the distance again until their noses touch, “ _ Do me _ .”

She could have laughed at the bad pun and even worse pick up line. She would have laughed if it hadn’t worked, if it hadn’t set her whole body on fire. Lexa reaches up with her free hand, cups the back of Clarke’s neck, closes her eyes against the familiarity of this. “You’ll regret this,” Lexa warns, gives a chance for Clarke to pull away.

Clarke simply chuckles against Lexa’s lips, a breath keeping them from kissing. “So will you,” she gives Lexa the same chance. Neither of them take it – it was never an option. “We’ll add it to the pile.”

Her sigh sounds more resentful than anything else, like Clarke is accepting what she can’t change. 

When Lexa is about to bite the bullet and lean in for a kiss, Clarke pulls back, scoots away from her, pulls her wrist until she takes the damn hint and slides down the booth as well. Her brain is muddled with cheap tequila, but more than that, the yearning for Clarke’s touch makes her slow, makes her want to forget propriety and kiss her right on the table, makes her able to do nothing more than follow Clarke into the bathroom.

A few girls come stumbling out of the door, giggling without care and tripping over their too high heels, and they leave the door half open as they do. Clarke reaches for it with her free hand, pushing it open – the hand she had wrapped around Lexa’s wrist has let go, slipped a little, tangled their fingers together instead.

Lexa was expecting a bright incandescent light, something to wake her up and give her back her good sense. But the bathroom light matches the red neon spread throughout the bar outside, if a little tame, a little more towards soft pink than real red. The sign on the far wall blurs for her when Clarke tugs her closer to her body so they can avoid another patron walking out the bar. 

When the door shuts closed, the music becomes muffled, the chatter disappears. The world narrows down to just the two of them, staring at each other.

It doesn’t take long for it to become  _ too much _ . Clarke has a hungry look to her, something that doesn’t seem to be going anywhere soon, something that makes Lexa feel naked, feel liquid lead dripping within her and pooling at the bottom of her stomach. Clarke licks her lips. Lexa sighs, untangles their fingers and takes a step back. 

She needs to think. Well, what she really needs is for her brain to start being able to process thoughts in the first place, to do anything other than crave what she shouldn’t have. Lexa finds a dry spot on the counter that holds the sinks, leaning her hips against it, her back to the mirror. She pushes her hair back and over her shoulder, feeling sudden too hot for comfort, and covers her face with both her palms – if only she could get her head to stop spinning, her brain to start working.

Warm hands find her waist, under her jacket and above her shirt, and it doesn’t startle her. It feels familiar. Dangerously so, but she embraces it nonetheless, lets Clarke hold her in place with the way her thumb caresses the sliver of skin showing. 

Breathing in deeply before opening her eyes, Lexa knows she’s doomed, knows she won’t leave this place until she’s utterly ruined. All she can breathe is Clarke, her perfume mixed with sweat and beer, the smell she’s slept wrapped around for months without a care in the world. All she can see is Clarke, her lips parted, her eyes dark with desire or the neon lights or both, her chest pressed against her and heaving with how each breath she takes. All she can think is how much she wants Clarke. Every part of her, the good, the bad, the ugly.

Clarke gives her all the time she needs, demanding nothing more than being able to stare at her for the whole year they stood apart. She’s waiting for Lexa to do the first move.

And Lexa does.

It takes her a moment to command her fingers to ease the death grip they had on the granite on her back, but when she does, her hands fly to Clarke. One finds her waist, pulling her just close enough for their thighs to touch, their fronts to be pressed against each other. The other finds her cheek, the skin burning hot against the chill of her palm. 

But Clarke doesn’t pull away. She leans in, willing Lexa to meet her halfway. And she does.

Their lips brush against each other without any hurry, the distance and the time apart melting around each other. Lexa sinks into it, her heart changing its beat to match Clarke’s – just like it’s supposed to, just like it’s always done. She sinks into it and lets herself believe.

Then Clarke pulls her bottom lip with her teeth just until they both gasp, slides her thigh in between Lexa’s, presses her harder against the counter. It changes the pace of the kiss, tongue slipping past lips without warning, teeth bumping together in their need for more. Lexa grunts when Clarke curls her fingers and pushes her slightly down, towards her thigh.  _ Fuck _ . She’s weak.

Lexa tilts her hips forward when Clarke guides her to, because of course she does, of course she gives in when every inch of hers tells her this is a bad idea. They should talk, shouldn’t they? She should apologize, she should give Clarke some space, she should tell her what she really feels.

But that’s hard to do when Clarke pulls back just so Lexa can chase her lips.

When Clarke breaks the kiss and takes a step back, Lexa is more than thankful for the counter keeping her up. Her legs are shaking ever so slightly, like the thought of sex with Clarke combined with the memory of how their orgasms used to happen is enough to make her weak in the knees. She can feel herself go crossed eye as she focuses on Clarke’s lips, begging her for another taste. By the way Clarke laughs when she grabs her hand again, Lexa knows it didn’t go unnoticed.

Clarke pulls Lexa into a stall, locking the door behind them, resuming the kiss immediately. She only fully realizes her hands are pinned above her when Clarke lets one go so she can tilt Lexa’s head to the side, expose her neck more fully, drag her tongue on her pulse point. Lexa finally snaps into action when Clarke sinks her teeth into tender flesh – the sharp pain wakes her up, and she grabs Clarke’s hair into her fist, pulls her closer, opens her legs in a clear invitation.

After a year without nothing but her own hands to give her any pleasure, it doesn’t take much for Lexa to be soaked. She feels herself gushing when Clarke presses her thigh in between Lexa’s again, a move so  _ hers _ that it feels like old times again. 

With Clarke pinning her hand up, the other hand holding her chin so she doesn’t move, her lips leaving kisses on her neck that are sure to become nasty hickeys in the morning and her thigh giving her just barely enough friction, Lexa can feel herself nearing insanity. She needs more. She needs all of Clarke. She needs to go back to a year ago and talk to her instead of letting every call go to voicemail. She needs more.

“Baby,” Lexa manages to get out in a strained voice, dropping her face against Clarke’s shoulder when she hits a sensitive spot in her mindless grinding. Her need is getting the best of her, making her forget what line she shouldn’t cross. “Please. I need you to touch me”

Clarke stops kissing her neck the moment the first word finds her. But Lexa doesn’t realize it until Clarke leaves her rocking on nothing as she draws her leg back, until there’s nothing holding her hand above her head, until she can see the panic in Clarke’s eyes. 

“You don’t get to call me that again,” Clarke says, her easy and controlled voice turns the burning desire into cold dread. It felt like second nature to call Clarke by an affectionate nickname during sex, it didn’t cross her mind that it might make her be on the receiving end of a look as feral as Clarke has right now, “I’ve worked too hard to get over you, don’t call me that.”

Lexa nods.

Making a mental note to tug her collar up so she can at least pretend she doesn’t have a bite mark on her neck and to get the cheapest, strongest drink to drown her sorrows in the cab, Lexa knows that whatever this is is over before it started. Because there’s no coming back from that, is there?

But then Clarke presses her lips against hers in a kiss so bruising she’s sure the hickey on her neck won’t be her only one. It takes a moment for Lexa to understand that Clarke still wants her – despite her slip up and what happened in London, despite everything, she still wants her. 

Tangling her fingers into blonde curls and pulling her closer, Lexa opens her lips to meet Clarke’s tongue, fights back a whine, pours all her hunger into the kiss. She’ll have Clarke however she can. The block of ice that found home in her core starts to melt as Clarke runs her fingers down her cleavage and belly, leaving a fiery path behind – the layer between her fingers and Lexa’s stomach feels like nothing at all when her breathing picks up.

Clarke fumbles with her jeans for a moment. It’s two buttons on top and another three hidden where a zipper usually would be, making these pants almost impossible to take off in a hurry. Lexa feels more than hears Clarke grunting into her lips before she breaks the kiss and draws back, just enough for her to look down and work the buttons open. 

The sight leaves Lexa in a haze. 

She’s weak, and seeing Clarke with her hands disappearing into her underwear doesn’t help her resolve of talking first. They can talk later. She needs Clarke now.

Spreading her legs further apart when Clarke kicks her foot, Lexa bites her lip to keep whatever stupid words her muddled brain is cooking up inside. She adjusts her grip on Clarke’s hair and sucks in a breath. It’s the sign Clarke always waits for before she touches her. And then she does.

Clarke presses the pads of her index and middle fingers against Lexa’s clit, drags them up ever so slightly, catches Lexa right before she falls, pauses all that she’s doing to give her time to recover. 

It’s been too long, and Clarke seems to know that much. It’s in the way she keeps her fingers still against her tender flesh. It’s in the way she drags her free hand up Lexa’s side and rests it on her neck. It’s in the way she waits until Lexa starts to rock her hips against her hand to move at all.

Maybe old habits do die hard after all. In the same way Lexa called her baby, Clarke peppers soft kisses on her neck, her thumb rubbing the pulse point on the other side as she starts moving her fingers in small circles. It’s a well practiced dance, something they’ve done a thousand times before – including in this very bathroom, although it didn’t have any mood light or stalls back then. It’s why they fit so well together, why it’s so hard to resist each other.

It doesn’t take more than two minutes for Lexa to feel the pressure building up in her core, spreading through her whole body. Clarke knows her way through her body better than she knows herself, knows that fucking her against the wall won’t ever make her last long. Lexa draws back to take a deep breath, to find courage somewhere, and tugs at Clarke’s elbow, pulls her closer. 

She needs her  _ inside _ , and she needs it now, before she comes with barely anything to blame on. Clarke gets the message and presses one last kiss to Lexa’s neck – she had made all the way to her collarbone, and between the little bites and trapping the sensitive skin in her lips, Lexa knows she’ll have a constellation of hickeys to match the larger one on the other side.

Clarke draws back until she can find Lexa’s eyes, lock their gazes together. It’s a level of intimacy Lexa wasn’t ready for, to watch the blue in Clarke’s eyes almost disappear as she adjusts her fingers in between her legs, positioning them just right.

“Do not fall in love with me,” Clarke warns, her fingertips hovering outside where Lexa needs them most. Her voice barely makes it through the want, she barely register that it’s as dangerous as it is shaky.

The ache in her core doesn’t leave her with much room to argue. Lexa doesn’t have any strength in her to tell Clarke her feelings never went away, that the last year has been a waiting game for her, with self-loathing as bonus quests. In that moment, she would promise Clarke anything. “I won’t.”

Clarke enters her with two fingers, just like they used to do – one finger was never enough for either of them, and after a while they just skipped that step altogether. She does it slowly, gauging Lexa’s reaction each moment, still holding her eyes to make sure she’s okay as she starts withdrawing her fingers only to enter her again. And maybe Clarke can see what Lexa feels after all.

She finds home in Clarke’s fingers.

When holding her gaze gets too heavy, Lexa presses their lips together once again, her teeth grazing on Clarke’s tongue as soon as they meet. It earns her a groan and Clarke speeds up, finding the rhythm she falls to when she’s done teasing Lexa, when she wants to get the job done and fuck her senseless.

It comes faster than Lexa is expecting, but she doesn’t complain – not when Clarke is curling her fingers with each thrust, when her hips are pressed against her palm in a way that makes it rub against her clit, when their kiss is a lost cause and they’re both just keeping each other close.

Their foreheads are pressed together, and Lexa wraps her fingers around Clarke’s neck like it’s the only thing keeping her up. And it might be. Her breath comes out in ragged puffs as she rocks her hips, chasing that high that feels so  _ fucking _ close.

When her movements become erratic and her vision starts to blur, Clarke stops. It would be one hell of a practical joke, getting Lexa so close to the edge only to leave her hanging – and while she knows she deserves a good pay back, that sounds like too harsh of a revenge. Clarke presses her hips against Lexa’s to keep her from bucking against her hand that’s now trapped in between both of their bodies, and leans back to press her palm on Lexa’s mouth, killing any argument that might be building up in her throat.

Lexa is about to do something stupid when she realizes why Clarke has paused. They’re not alone. 

There’s a shuffling somewhere to their side, maybe bags being opened and dived into in search for an item that might seem essential, some conversation that gets cut by a loud laughter. Lexa must have missed the door being opened, which doesn’t surprise her with how far gone she was. She keeps still, vows to stay that way until whoever thought it was fit to gossip in a bar bathroom while redoing their makeup leaves them alone again.

But then her walls clench around Clarke’s fingers, still buried deep within her.

Clarke turns to her, a proud smirk tugging her lips upwards. Lexa wants to roll her eyes at how Clarke simply assumes her body is reacting like this because of her – which it is, but well. She doesn’t have time to do much at all when Clarke steps back ever so slightly to give herself some room. Then resumes her thrusting in the same speed she had three minutes ago.  _ Fuck. _

“You need to be fucking quiet,” Clarke says when Lexa groans against her palm, sounding way too demanding for someone who can’t wait until the other occupants leave the bathroom to finish fucking her.

Nodding, Lexa presses her lips together, making a conscious effort to keep herself from moaning. It’s been too long, and Clarke feels so fucking good inside her and  _ fuck _ . She must have made some noise without meaning to, because Clarke slows down again, giving her a scolding look, but then only guides Lexa to bite her shoulder, to use it to muffle the sounds she can’t keep in, instead of keeping her from her orgasm for too much longer. Which she does briefly, before settling for biting only her shirt – they have enough history on that front to know it’s a bad idea.

“We could just do this,” Clarke says, trying to sound almost casual when her own breathing as hard as Lexa’s. It takes Lexa a moment to understand what the living fuck she’s trying to say, her brain too focused on chasing the high in silence to process anything. “For two years? We’re good at sex, we just need to not mix feelings. That was our mistake.”

She needs Clarke to stop talking. She needs her to  _ not _ propose they become friends with benefits when they have never been friends to begin with. She needs her to have mercy on her and make her come before her sanity flies away from her.

Lexa doesn’t answer right away, doesn’t have the mental capability for it. She unlocks her jaw, letting go of Clarke’s shirt and dragging her teeth up her neck, pleading in her ear, “Fuck, Clarke, I swear to g–  _ oh _ , fuck.”

Something within her snaps, breaks apart when Clarke does little circles with her palm. Lexa grits her teeth to keep herself quiet as she works through her high, that seems to last longer than she ever remembers it lasting.

She almost blacks out when Clarke thrusts a couple more times before drawing her fingers out and sucking them clean, tasting her in them. Fuck.  _ Fuck _ , she’s missed this.

“What do you say?” Clarke asks again, like their conversation never stopped, like she didn’t just give Lexa the best orgasm she’s had in the last year. Lexa blinks until Clarke gets into focus again, and she finds herself thankful for the way Clarke has her arm around her waist – it might be dangerously sweet, but her legs wouldn’t be able to keep her up. “Two years, no strings attached? Sex when we need it and nothing else.”

Lexa takes a deep, steadying breath in. “Okay,” her voice comes out a lot more certain than she feels. But if it means she gets to have  _ this _ , she’ll strike whatever deal Clarke offers her, “Okay, now turn around and tell me how you want me to fuck you.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://sassymajesty.tumblr.com), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/sassymajesty) and also [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/sassymajesty) now! You're all more than welcome to reach out and send me a message - it can be all yelling, I swear I don't mind as long as you're nice. 
> 
> On Tumblr, you can find sneak peeks for upcoming chapters, as well as other tidbits, like gifsets and oh, spoilers I give in whatever message that gives me room for it! And if you want to know more about my writing and other stories, I put everything together in a page [here](http://sassymajesty.tumblr.com/writing)!


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